"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
We watch the bruising of the sea,
a blotched surface wound that holds a tempest beneath.
A plea whispered so gently upon the staining of its skin.
Sighs fall in little waves upon the beach
that touch upon the feet of the earth.
Washed in worship, bathed in a wave of kisses.
We sit all while the sky smudges into sea,
a white-blue mist at the end of our earth
as water dips down away past mirrored cliffs like these.